


slide down slow, beneath your belly i go

by kingtumbleweed



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Bondage, Casual Sex, Handkerchief Code, Hook-Up, Interspecies, M/M, Rope Bondage, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtumbleweed/pseuds/kingtumbleweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cronus Ampora, sensitive smooth talker extraordinaire, makes a tipsy pass at the club DJ, and it actually works.  They go home for bondage and sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slide down slow, beneath your belly i go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [incorrigibleIxoreus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrigibleIxoreus/gifts).



> I have to wonder how many of my fics are going to be gifts for iI just for being a sweet, sweet porn muse.

It's not that you're not used to being flirted with at your gigs, or that you're unused to seeing trolls on the dance floor.  It _is_ definitely that you're unused to having _trolls_ flirt with you at your gigs.  Girls, guys, and queers of all types are always up at your dais, trying to catch your eye, offering you drinks you politely refuse when you step down to breathe, but the trolls usually keep to themselves, in little pockets on the floor, and more often they stick to raves, not clubs.  It's been a couple years since social integration, but things aren't all hunky-dory just yet.

You are in your element here, headset on and mixing on the fly.  The place is a fug of sweat, beer, and body spray, and sweltering warm, but it's a good damn living when the house is alive at your fingertips.  A swig of water when you can let a track rest is enough to keep you going, and the sweat drips at your nape are nothing new--you live in fucking Texas.

This one troll, though, he’s pretending not to know that you're watching him--pretending not to know that you know he _wants_ you watching him--he's something different.  You've never seen a troll that isn’t shit at dancing, much less one with a reasonable sense of fashion.  He had a nice leather bomber jacket when he came in, though he's ditched that now to rock out in just a white tee, cutoff sleeves, squiggly purple lines printed on the front.  He's got the sleek, muscular arms of a guy just off his obligatory two-sweep military service, black hair primped into a perfect little pompadour between his jaggy horns, and--your favorite touch--an artfully rumpled, charcoal-colored hanky tucked into the back pocket of his slim dark jeans.  You've considered a couple times the likelihood that he's totally oblivious versus the likelihood that it was a detail chosen on purpose.  Either way, he’s altogether not the worst interested party you've ever had, if the first alien.

At one point, you're scanning the gradually thinning crowd--only an hour and a half left to close, and he catches your eye, swaggers up, shouts something indistinct over the noise.  All he gets for his trouble is a grin and an amused toast as you unscrew your water bottle cap, but that's apparently sufficient--he melts back into the crowd with a smirk.  You wait until you see him later at the bar--in the company of a small cluster of other trolls, two in matching skater skinnies and a petite girl with a choppy punk haircut and his jacket slung around her shoulders--before you give your manager a wave and head for the bathroom.  You don't have to check behind you to know he follows you.

You watch him in the mirror from behind your shades as you sweep your dreads back and secure them out of your face with your hat, and he comes to the sink next to you and butts one shoulder up against yours.  He's an inch or two shorter than you, but his horns break your height by several.

"Hey chief, you're lookin' mighty good up there."

In the light, you can see there are a parallel pair of zig-zagging scars on his forehead in pale purple.  One cuts up into his hairline a little.  You decide to see what cards he's got in his hand.

"Oh yeah?"

"Mm, doin’ good vork vith your hands.  Gets a guy vantin' an introduction, get to know you personally.  A fine piece a' man like you oughtn't hawe t'be all vork and no play all night," he nuzzles boldly up to your neck as he speaks, and you guess his accent must be that seatroll thing you've heard mention of.  "I'm thinkin', I bet nobody hits up on the deejay, prob'ly intimidated y'know, but I'm into music too, see?  Ve got a thing in common, a coupl’a artistic guys like us."

Here's a real smooth talker if you ever saw one.  And tipsy as hell.  Cute that he’s trying so hard, though, so you throw him a bone.  "You make music?"  You loop a finger in his belt loop, letting him kiss up on you as he answers.

"'M kinda a bard, yeah."

"Wandering the streets, singing the great deeds of your king?"

He laughs at that, showing a whole mouthful of neat, straight shark teeth, and holy shit those could draw blood without even trying.

"No vay, more like--"

"Hey, get the hell off the fishdick and back on the turntables, c'mon!"  A rowdy client bangs the door open and clatters his way inside, but doesn't harass you further.

You bump your chin against your troll friend's cheek, patting the small of his back.  "He's right, fishdick, I've got a job to do."

"Vait, vait!"  He snags at your shirt in the doorway, fins flushing lavender.  "Take me home vith you!"

He stumbles a little as you back him up against the doorframe with your body, licks his lip when you pat his butt right over the handkerchief'd right pocket.  "Bondage bottom, huh?"  
His fingers grope over your ass, and despite the purple flush across his whole face now, he gives you his most enthusiastic, if surprised grin.  "Sure thing, boss.  I vas starting to vorry no one knew vhat the codes vere, and..."  He's babbling, obviously put off by your pokerface, but you've got to give him credit for determination.  You interrupt his chatter to pat him once more for good measure and break off back to your set without answering.

The last hour of set passes as slowly as it ever does.  As the crowd slags off to catch last-call drinks at the bar and buses before they shut down for the night, it gets harder and harder to lose time in their energy.  The troll--the _bard_ \--dances just inside your range of vision, and you know it's on purpose, that his hair is just a little undone and his shirt is rucked up over just a bare inch of fine hipbones between the hem and his low-slung jeans, and you don't mind if you do, you enjoy the view.  You haven't seen the crew he was with again, but that doesn't mean they aren't still here.

Once all the stragglers have been shooed out the door, and you've bid your manager and the bartender a good night and called a cab, you find your troll friend slouched against the wall outside, sucking down the last of a cigarette.

He hitches upright right away.  "Lemme help you vith your stuff?"

"It's a big responsibility, big boy."

"Nah c'mon, it'd be a priwilege."  He stubs out his cigarette and helps you lift your gear into the trunk of your waiting taxi.  

You eye his bare shoulders.  "Did you forget your jacket?"

"My--?  Oh, no, Meenah's got it.  An’ it’s warm out, it’s no big."

"She's taking your jacket home but not you?"

He laughs, not bothering to hide the bitter edge on it.  "No vay, she's hopin' t'hell that I go anyvhere but home vith her.  Girl can’t spare a moment for a dotin’ friend if there’s tits around to be had.  I’ll get the jacket back soon enough, though."  He props another cigarette between his lips.  That's not a very auspicious speech, but when he hesitates at the car door you shrug, pluck the cigarette from his mouth and tuck it behind his ear, and drag him inside onto your lap to see what he can do.

The driver makes no bones about the two of you--you’d bet money that she’s had hornier late-nighters than you in the car before--and so you have a good time exploring tonight's new toy.  He was wrong on one count:  everybody hits on the DJ, be it for sex or status of just an excess of liquid courage.  You’re guessing that in his case, it’s all of the above.  You're not bothered; DJing has scored you more good lays than you ever expected early on, even if the crowd does tend to skew too vanilla for your tastes.  

You know fuck-all firsthand about troll anatomy, but you're learning quickly about how those shark teeth really _will_ snag and tear your lip if you're not careful, how the little slits where this guy has gills on his neck flare out when he's excited, and that those slender-tined fins on his ears are sensitive enough that he’ll shiver when you so much as breathe over them, and moan when you nip.  He moans into your kisses, too, and ruts up against you, and while he's definitely playing it up, you don't really mind.  For all that he's a bit booze-sloppy, he's a challenge to kiss, clever with his tongue, getting a swipe at your teeth and snatching up your lip to suck before you can catch hold of him, and having a buff boy melting in your lap is never an unpleasant experience.  It takes an effort of concentrated willpower to keep your pants calm until you get your shit taken care of.  You jam your hands down the back of his pants and push your way into his mouth, where he tastes of smoke and sweet alcohol and salt, until the cab stops at your building.

When the two of you tumble out of the backseat, he smooths his pants down and his hair back, and the two of you heft all your gear out of the backseat and into the elevator.

"So, uh," he prods at his swollen lip with the tip of a brilliant purple tongue, and you remember again with a funny little moment of surprise that trolls _are_ aliens, "you hawe a name, or vhat?"

"Bro."

" _Bro._ "

"That's it."

"You're shittin' me."

"I shit you not.  Your turn."

"I'm," he pauses with a sardonic grin, and shakes his head, " _daddy_."

You snort, and let your knees hit the elevator floor.  "Oh _punish me_ , daddy, show me my _place_."  You shuffle up to him, and he shoves you away with an awkward laugh.

"No, fuckin' shut up, s'a joke; name's Cronus."

"Here you go, Cronus!"  You load his arms with your turntable, and lead him down the hall to your apartment.  Dave's not in the living room, so you guess he's in his room, probably talking to his girlfriend.  Or boyfriend.  You don’t know who he’s up to lately.  You direct Cronus where to put your stuff and knock on Dave's door, across the hall.

"Did you eat?"

"Yeah, there was the leftover pizza?"

"Aw, you little shit, that was breakfast."

"First come, first done!"

"I'm not buying you cereal for a week!"  Damn, you love the kid.    
"Hey fuck yourself!"

"I've got company over, you hear?”

"I hear you and your hand through the _wall_ every night!"

Brat.  

Cronus looks up from kicking his boots off when you lock your door.  "You'we got a kid?"

"He’s my little bro."

"Is that _his_ name, too?"

"Haha, no."  You ditch your hat on your desk and shimmy up against him, skimming your fingers up under his shirt.

"Vhat's vith the puppets?"  He tips his chin up, pecking at your mouth and pressing his hips against yours.

"I run a webshow."  You bite his lip and peel his shirt up, and leave his arms tangled in it above his head.  His torso is nice and solid, not that his shirt did much to hide it, and cut enough to suggest he spends time working out.  And he has no nipples.   _Interesting._  You run your thumb over where one would be, on a human, and then over to the thick, hardened skin over his gillslits.  For someone so well-built, he sure seems desperate, and you're betting it's his mouth that gets him in trouble.  Or maybe trolls just like skinny fucks.

"Vith puppets?  Vhat, a children's show?"  Cronus bites at your jaw, working himself free of his shirt so he can paw at your groin.  You scrape your nails around his hips, edge your feet apart a little so he can get all the feel he wants.

"If your children are the kind who watch porno."

"You make puppet porn?"

"Want me to show you?"

"No, that's just fine, I--"

You interrupt him with some more kissing, biting his jaw and neck, and he makes gratifying gasps of surprise and pleasure, and a little alien chirrup when you squeeze his ass hard.  "Now," you tug the handkerchief out of his pocket, flicking it in front of his nose.  "Bondage?"

"Shit yeah," he breathes, and you fold the hanky into a neat strip.

"Bring your wrists up," you instruct, turning him around.  "D'you have a preferred safeword?"

He's awkwardly silent for a minute while you wrap the hanky around his wrists, tying them together one over the other in the middle of his back, like he didn’t think far enough ahead to consider actually getting laid.  "Uh?  Oh, safevord's 'radical, an’... Are you into anal?"

He can't see you raise an eyebrow.  "Fuck yes I am.  Do you like marks?"

" _Yes_."

"Oh, good."  You bite down on his shoulder hard enough to make him growl, an unexpected noise that resonates out from his chest.  You growl back and palm his crotch through his jeans, and--there's nothing there that you can feel, but he grinds into your hand anyway.  "I'm gonna get the rope."

"Ah?  Mn'kay."

You fish your duffel bag of things out from under the futon while he kneels on the edge of the bed.  "Have you boned a human before?"  There's also a towel stashed in the bag, and you toss it next to him.

"Hawe you fucked a troll?"

"Nope."

"Vell, I’we fucked a human."

"Yeah?  And how was it?"  You loop one of your shorter lengths around his ribcage and over his shoulders, putting together a solid, impromptu harness to secure his arms to his torso and his wrists to a short column of rope strung over his shoulders.  He shrugs.

“Your genitals are stupid.”

"So is it true then, that you have both?"

"Both?"

"A vulva and a cock.  Or a tentacle, is what it looks like."

"Vhat kind'a troll hawe you seen that doesn't have a nook an' a bulge?  Vhich is vhat they're called, thanks, s'not a fuckin' cock."

You shrug.  "You never know!  Can't always trust what you see in porn."

"You vatch troll porn?"

"You have sex with humans."

"It’s not the _same_ ; anyone can get a guy off, but vhat he gets himself off to..."

You knot off the ends of your rope and tuck it neatly into itself.  "What do you get yourself off to?  Because, let me remind you, I run a puppet fetish subscription site.  You could say my tastes aren't strictly average.  Let me know if anyplace is too tight or starts to go numb."  You bite him again and he 'nngh's, and then you busy yourself undoing his belt and skinning his jeans and shorts down his legs.  When you kneel to let him step out of them, you take the opportunity to nip at his bare ass, which looks about as nice as it feels, slim and tightly muscled.  On standing back up, you strip your shirt off and press up against his back again, smoothing your fingers down his body, chest to hips, and slide a hand in between his legs.  There's his nook, as mentioned, slick at your fingertips, but--oh _there's_ the bulge.  It’s definitely a tentacle dick, with only a faintly defined head and a firm ridge along the underside, sliding smoothly from his body to wriggle around your fingers, leaving the same purple fluid his nook was wet with where it touches.  It _sheathes_ , _that's_ how it works.  Your cock is definitely interested now.  Cronus leans against you, sighing when you slide the tip between your fingers.

"Have you been tested recently?"

"Huh?"

"Are trolls even susceptible to human sexually transmitted diseases?"

"Uh," his fingers flex against your stomach, "not s'far's I know."

"Hm, well.  You guys really come buckets?"

"Vell, _buckets_ are for prudes and old-fashioned imperialists," he wiggles his hips impatiently against your hand, "not really the progressive urban types like me, but if you vant a bucket, I am wery open-minded about my partners' needs."

You squeeze his bulge and whatever else he was going to say about that gets lost in a garbled yelp.

"Not so hard!  S'not a dick, it's delicate!"

"I'm sorry, little progressive urban-type delicate flower."

It’s an unsubtle jab, but he tries to get an elbow at you for that anyway, and you grab him by a fistful of hair, knock him in the back of the knees, and drop him back to kneeling on the futon before he can react beyond a shout of surprise.  Unhitching your jeans with one hand, you shove them down your thighs and just rub your cock, still trapped neatly in your underwear, possessively against the cleft of his ass, and he makes a wet little purr, back arched so he can grind back on your dick.

"So, what, you've got a..."

"Nuh?"

"A nook, but you don't like getting fucked in it?"

"D'you _hawe_ to ask so many qvestions?"

"Nope, guess not."  Okay, he doesn’t want to talk about it.  Not your problem.  You bump up against him one more time, heedless of the purple stain it leaves on your underwear, and go about shedding all the rest of your clothes.  The towel, you spread beneath him.  Lube and condoms are in the drawer of your desk, and you toss those on the bed between his legs, which you nudge apart with your knees, and push his head down until he's got his face in your blankets and his ass in the air.  You almost wish he'd come home with you for a beating, not a fucking; his ass is beautiful, and this thighs are something else entirely.  You bet the bruises blooming with his purple blood would be downright _artistic_.  Your cock twitches, and you drag your hand absently down its length once, twice.

The inside of his body, when you slick your fingers and slide them into him one at a time, is not wet-hot like humans, it’s more like lukewarm.  You almost ask if he’s okay, but--he’s a seatroll, they must be just different, the same way fish are cool to the touch.  You bite down on the chuckle that raises.  Pumping two fingers in and out draws a variety of little sighs and hums out of Cronus, and his hips roll with your pace.  He doesn’t seem to have a prostate, but he definitely likes your thumb braced up against the skin below his nook.  His bulge hangs heavy between his legs, curling idly, and you can feel your cock, too, resting hot against your leg, a sticky little spot of precum at the tip.  You give him up to three fingers, by which time he's getting wiggly and needy, before you withdraw; you know you're not an outlier on a scale of length, but your girth isn't unimpressive, and he's made of narrow architecture.  You roll the condom onto your dick and lube up with practiced deftness.

You cup his ass with one hand, spreading him open, and Cronus arches his back so he's pressed almost flat to your mattress, save for his ass held high, and he makes a perfect noise that's some mix of shuddering sigh and sex-starved whine when you press your cock into him, letting him take just the head at first.  You tease him there, making the shallowest little thrusts you can, with just the very tip of your cock right where the muscle is tightest, biting down hard on your lip to keep control.  He's fabulously responsive, thighs tightening in frustration, twisting in his bonds and whining.  You make him swear loudly before you push in slowly, and it's only with a raw-edged groan that he takes the widest part of your shaft.  That's when you let him have it, balls-deep, fisting your hand in his hair again and riding him hard, skin slapping.  He turns to jelly beneath you, moaning like a porn star and smearing his flushed face in the bedspread.  His bound, unoccupied hands fist and pull as he writhes, and you rake your nails up the back of one thigh to make him cry out, curling his hips hard against you, and he splutters,

"Touch my bulge, comeonfuckin' _please_."

With a laugh made husky by arousal, you tug him upright by one horn so his whole body is flush against you--relishing the way the breath leaves him at being manhandled--ass pressed right into your hips with your cock buried deep, and hold him up with one arm and reach around his hip with the other to let his bulge curl frantically around your hand.  That must be all it takes, because he makes a sound that you know without seeing is being forced out while he bites down on his lip, and when you grind hard up into him, he comes with a shout; his muscles ripple hard around you and cum spouting from his bulge in absolute waves, and you are damn glad you put the towel down, otherwise your mattress might have never been the same.

You give him a moment to pant his way through the aftershocks, body slack and chest heaving, before you nibble at his earfin.

"Hey sweet thing, I'm not all done here."

"Shit, I'm, _yeah_ I'll, fuck," Cronus can't speak for panting, and you lay him down on his side, without pulling out.  You have to move to kneeling on the floor to keep your height aligned.

You swipe sweat from your temple with the heel of one hand, admiring the way his hair has been ruined, stuck all over his forehead, and his face and chest have flushed slate purple.  "I'd like to fuck you, quick, until I'm done, but if you’re too sensitive to take that, it'd be fucking great if you’d blow me.  I've got papers, no more'n a month old, avowing that I'm clean as it gets."  When he doesn't respond yet, you shrug, "Or if you're really and totally just done, I can just--"

"No, you can--can yeah, go on, fuck me."

"Hot."  You sling one of his knees up over your shoulder, pawing at the lube bottle to drizzle a little more lube between his legs, and, wrapping both arms around his thigh, you slam into him again, hard enough that he whimpers little pained mewls, four, five, six, and then he gives an outright whine and that is it for you, you shudder and snap into him with a groan, orgasm rocking your whole body, flooding your nervous system.  You twitch your way through coming, and finally let him go and fall forward onto your elbows over him.  He chuckles wearily while you recover, and yelps when you nip at his side, shoving you away with a knee, and you stumble off, pulling out carefully now that you're soft, and deposit your condom neatly in the trash under your desk.  You fold up the soiled towel and use a clean corner to wipe him and yourself clean enough to crash.

"Up, sleepy troll."  It takes some jimmying to get Cronus to haul himself up on his knees so you can untie him, and when you’re done he flops right back against you, mumbling wordlessly as you rub stiffness out of his arms and shoulders, resting your chin on his shoulder.  There are ligature marks in a gorgeous dark dusky color on his skin, and you bet they’d turn out great in photographs, but you make a point not to use your hookups as models unless they come back.  Maybe he will.  He’d be worth bruising up properly.

"Are you gonna kick me out on my naked ass, or c'n I sleep ower?" Cronus asks in a half-mumble, his chin drooping to his chest.

   You tip him ungracefully over onto the bed.  "Give me _some_ credit, I've got no use for your clothes."  The blankets are mostly trapped under him, but you tug one free and drape it around your shoulders while you get up to hit the light switch, and lay down beside Cronus, tugging some pillows within reach, tossing the blanket over the two of you, and flopping an arm around his waist.  "Don't bail out in the morning without leaving me a number to throw away, alright?"  You butt your chin against his shoulder.

   He slurs something about cocky dudes with no respect for a sensitive guy, and you fall asleep imagining him, all built muscles and fucked limp, bruised and sweaty, strung up by the joints as a fine-boned living puppet.


End file.
